Rebirth
by Cries of an Angel
Summary: Time has passed, and the world has come to a time of peace. However, darkness looms ahead, as the souls of those who have passed are brought together in life...A single life, one that should never have existed.


**Disclaimer: **Nope, I don't own Drakengard. Look somewhere else.

Resurrection

Silence. The only thing that greeted him was silence in the old, abandoned castle that he was in. He stood, transfixed by the horizon as he gazed towards the sunset, its color somehow a deep, dark red – an almost crimson hue. Hearing something to his left, he closed his eyes in thought and anticipation.

The second man's face was concealed by a black and red hood. At first neither seemed to acknowledge the other's presence, but a few solemn minutes of silence passed and the hooded one shifted his gaze upwards, revealing eyes of a red equivalent to the setting sun. It was a trait shared by all in the castle that day.

"The preparations are complete," the hooded one spoke, "we shall proceed upon your orders, my lord."

Receiving a subtle nod, the hooded man promptly left to the courtyard to begin.

Left alone in the darkness, the first man cracked a wicked, morbid grin.

They would live again.

~-~-~

The sounds of shuffling of feet and shifting of books filled the library as Nowe wandered about the aisles, attempting to fend his impending boredom. There wasn't much to do, with all the peace everywhere and everything. No, it seemed Nowe would be forced to find some way of occupying himself besides fighting tooth and nail during this glorious golden age of prosperity.

Not that he minded, honestly. Nowe was quite content with the whole "not fighting anymore" thing, thank you very much. Fighting was exhausting, and on numerous occasions seemed to go on without reason.

Needless to say, however, Nowe still kept his fighting skills in tip-top shape, lest anything dangerous of any sort begin to cause trouble for the kingdom and its people. Swordsmanship was, after all, quite his forte, and he needn't be reminded of whenever he lost a battle of such to anyone else within the castle(All the soldiers always went hysterical when he lost, and Manah would tease him to no end for becoming – quoting the dragon-raised boy himself – "just rusty, that's all"), let alone anyone of any danger to his comrades.

Fighting wasn't boring, but it just wasn't something that Nowe wanted to do all the time. The knights could fight well enough, now, anyways. Nowe had attended to that personally. Training, training, and more training was in store for any soldier that did not meet or exceed Nowe's standards, the latter being quite near impossible to do. Nowe would make absolutely certain that the Knights of the Seal would be able to take any threat head on. Physically, at least.

Manah was – and definitely always would be – the magic expert. Nowe remembered watching, captivated, during their travels every time Manah had begun to use spells, sometimes going for hours on end without her concentration slipping in the slightest. Nowe was often fascinated to the same extent that had got him interested in being a knight in the first place – the humans, though he was one himself, were so foreign and new to him, seeming to fight with grace and ease. Now, though, Nowe didn't usually want to see that aspect of Manah, because it probably meant she was fighting _him. _And Manah _always_ kicked Nowe's ass when it came to magic.

Being the expert she was, it made sense that Manah would be busy(as per usual) with task of teaching the knights in the ways of magic. Magic was an asset not used much before, because the few wizards the Knights had were always protecting the Grand Shrine.

Protecting the Grand Shrine...It wasn't that there was much interest in attacking there, really – there were plenty of strong, able-bodied men(and women, Nowe had to remind himself) to fight off any invaders seeking...Seeking what? The Knights of the Seal weren't exactly rich, though they did impose a fair tax on the lands, if only to keep and maintain the peace. No, the importance of all the defensive measures was all on account of...

...Eris...The name brought a myriad of emotions to the young dragon boy, the most dominant of them being concern. Eris – now the goddess, now the frail one, ever so delicate... Nowe had definitely not expected _that_ to happen. Being Nowe's childhood friend was one thing, but being a friend that had more often than naught proved to be the _stronger_ of the two...

Nowe grumbled, musing about how badly he could be beaten by the women in his life.

Eris was given time to go out on occasion, and on holidays she could be found in the courtyard with almost everyone else, if surrounded by numerous guards all around. Although, from what Nowe gathered from Seere, Eris was treated with a leniency not given to most of the other goddesses before her. Nowe was reminded of the last goddess, bound by the chains and weight of her burden...

Well, today wasn't one of Eris's days to be out, and almost all of the knights were on some duty or training or something else, and Nowe really didn't feel like getting his ass kicked today. _Again._(Nowe had, actually, volunteered to help out in Manah's magic lesson. He wouldn't be doing _that_ again any time soon.)

And thus Nowe found himself in the large library of the Grand Shrine, taking glances at the spines of age-old, worn out books and pulling any in particular that seemed to catch his interest. Settling down at a table in a nice, comfy, chair Nowe began to read _The History of the War and the Heroes That Fought it_. The war that predated his birth interested him to no end, especially a particular king of a particular land.

And, just as Nowe was able to calm down, engrossed in his book-

"Sir Nowe," a knight called and caught his attention, "Heirarch Seere requests your presence."

Nowe paused for a second, taking a moment to process the order given to him. What would Seere want with him now?

"Very well." Nodding, Nowe marked his place in the book and gently placed it on the stack of books he was supposed to read that day. Well, either way it seemed that Nowe wasn't going to be bored, at least. Seere wasn't one to call for Nowe if it were a mere personal matter. Quite often, actually, Seere would come down the stairs of to the courtyard, seemingly bouncing around with a personality that almost matched the body he was in, looking for Nowe to either pester or ask some ridiculous question to. Nowe was pretty sure it was just his way of coping with everything he had been through, cheering up the Knights of the Seals, or a combination of both.

He shook his head, to clear it of his thoughts. _Well, I won't know what Seere wants until I go see him, right?_ He grabbed one of the books on the table, letting out a sigh. He had to clean up this mess first, though. As Nowe began to look for where the book had originated, the knight in the room grabbed the heavy text from his hands.

"I'll take care of it, sir. The heirarch says that the matter is of utmost importance."

Nowe blinked. "Uhh...Thanks..." The two shared a swift salute, and Nowe slowly turned to leave, a look of confusion on his face. Just what was it that had Seere so worried? Concerning thoughts filled his head as he made his way through the grand building, the fact that he knew the place like the back of his hand leading him more than anything. Before long he found himself in the final hallway, right in front of the room he was called to. With a frown, he approached the heavy, double doors to the heirarch's study, not knowing what to expect in the slightest.

Knocking lightly before entering, Nowe found Seere with his brow furrowed, deep in thought at his desk. Having never seen such an expression on the boy's(man's?) face, Nowe' eyes filled with concern.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Nowe asked, unsure of what to say.

"Nowe..." The seemingly young heirarch was choosing his words carefully. Nowe frowned. Usually Seere would insist on not being called "sir" by him – he said that it made it seem as though they weren't friends. And it made Seere feel old.

"You recall our...'Special' armory, correct?"

Uncertain of as to where the conversation was headed, Nowe gave a brief nod and walked closer to the desk at which Seere was, elbows propped upon, hands folded in front of his mouth. The 'special' armory was where all the weapons Nowe and company had obtained during their travels were stored. Seere had been ecstatic when he saw such weapons of lore, saying how he remembered some from his previous adventures. It was requested that they were to be closely guarded deep within the Shrine, under lock and key.

Now, however, it almost didn't seem feasible that Seere had ever possessed such a cheerful disposition. The mood was completely foreign to Nowe, and out of habit he fidgeted slightly towards the blade at his side. Boy, when Seere said he was serious...

"The most peculiar problem has presented itself. It seems...The armory has been raided."

Nowe was visibly shocked, his mouth falling agape ever so slightly in a startled gasp, eyes wide and unblinking. Numerous priceless artifacts were stored there. Had it been raided, Seere would have alerted all the districts in an attempt to find the criminal. Certainly they should have been much more worried about weapons of such value!

"However," Seere continued – and it was here that the heirarch chose to get up out of his seat, and take a few steps to the side, almost staring at the ground as he did so, "it seems that only one weapon was taken."

Only one weapon? That just didn't make any sense. _If someone could break into such a secure room, one full of priceless weapons...Why would they only take one? _Nowe's face was wrought with confusion and worry. His shock over Seere's words left him in a daze for a few of seconds, unable to react.

Finally, Nowe was able to compose himself.

"So," he managed to faintly rasp out, " Which one?"

A short silence ensued, and Seere hesitantly spoke. His answer shocked Nowe even more.

"The sword of Caim."

~-~-~

An ominous chant filled the air, and flames danced around the courtyard. A group of thirteen circled around a small pile of ashes, a large sword embedded upright in the center.

Slowly, the chant began to grow louder, and the leader of the group walked to the center. He chanted something else, his words laced with magic. Sprinkling a liquid over the ashes, he closed his hands and a red glow emitted from his body.

"It is time," he spoke slowly, opening his arms out towards the heavens, "for the Glorious Ones of the prophecy to be reborn!"

The chanting had stopped, and now all eyes were directed towards the pile of ashes. "Neither man nor beast shall stand in the way of Their destruction! Let every enemy bow down towards Their might!" His voice rose, a piercing shrill of words from a lost language amid the dark night. The pile erupted in flames, smoke rising into the cold air.

The entire courtyard was filled with a dark mist, and the smell of what seemed to be burning flesh permeated the air. It all seemed completely lifeless, as the moon shone down softly from above and not a single creature uttered a sound.

A while later the mist began to thin, the men almost perfectly motionless where they had been all night long.

But now there were fourteen men in the courtyard.

In the middle of the circle, in place of the ash, was a man, dressed in a robe similar to those that surrounded him – deep crimson and black, although his was lined with gold. The man was at first laying on the ground, but he seemed to wake, oriented himself, and began to rise. He stood, fully erect, with the sword now in his right hand, clutched with a grip far beyond human. His expression was hard, unrelenting, cruel. He did not speak, but he turned, looking at each and every other man there.

A few of the men swallowed, trying to hold back from running away in pure terror. Even the leader of the group seemed fazed, sweating with his body completely stiff. The air was tense, and the man in the middle finally set his gaze on the sky above.

He couldn't truly be described as a man, but he wasn't completely _not_ a man, either. His body certainly shared the physique and characteristic shape of a human, but his expression – the air about him, his presence, seemed...Almost _demonic, _instilling despair into everything he set his eyes upon.

Those eyes, teething with...Rage? ...Lust? ...Vengeance? Whatever it was, those _eyes_ were certainly the least human thing about him.

Or more specifically, his left eye.

For his right eye, menacing as it was, still possessed a sense of humanity, a deep blue, if hardened and glazed over with time and experience.

But the left eye was golden, the eye of a predator, and it looked at the world around it as absolutely insignificant. Its gaze was sharp, quick, glowing with power and acknowledgment of this grisly strength. This eye was an eye seen by few up close, and over the course of many years, decades, centuries...it was the last thing many men were ever aware of, as their lives were crushed beneath a monstrous force, smeared against the ground insignificantly...

It was the eye of a dragon.


End file.
